


our hands on the table

by bmblb



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, chocolate eclairs can and will symbolize character growth thank you, this is gay. i am gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-20 23:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21064880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmblb/pseuds/bmblb
Summary: When things were all said and done, Wash was afraid he was going to be restless with it all eventually. It’s been over two years and he still hasn’t managed to get sick of it.





	our hands on the table

For the past few months, Tucker’s been waking up earlier than him, which is an amusing turn of events. He slides out of bed around seven hundred hours every day, careful not to stir the light-sleeping man lying on the right side of the bed. He relieves himself, showers, and then goes downstairs to turn on their old coffee machine. He takes the cups of coffee upstairs and sets it down on each of their respective nightstands and crawls back under the blankets to check for updates on his datapad.

Moments later, Wash groggily awakens to the promising smell of coffee. It’s an effective way to remind him exactly where he is before he even opens his eyes. Tucker knows that, even though Wash hasn’t gotten around to saying so yet. He barely opens his eyes, glancing at Tucker and yawning, reaching a hand out to grasp his forearm. Once he’s awake enough, he squeezes in appreciation. Tucker smiles outside of Wash’s field of vision, setting his coffee down and running a hand through Wash’s hair.

“You finally decided to join us in the land of the living, huh?”

Wash lifts his hand to swat at him half-heartedly. “Not my fault you’re all of a sudden the early riser,” he counters, sitting up in the bed beside him.

Tucker shrugs, looking back down at the holographic screen. Wash reaches for his coffee, now cooled from the time it’s spent waiting for him to wake up. It has more sugar than he used to take it. Now that he has the time, he’s been trying to expand his tastes. Tucker indulges him.

“Thank you,” Wash says, as he does every morning.

“What can I say? I’m the ideal husband,” Tucker replies, as he tends to do.

Wash can’t argue with that, so he just smiles lopsidedly and kisses Tucker’s bare shoulder. He takes his coffee with him when he leaves the room to get ready for the day. There is a sense of tranquility about pleasant routine. When things were all said and done, Wash was afraid he was going to be restless with it all eventually. It’s been over two years and he still hasn’t managed to get sick of it.

Besides, it’s not like everything is the same all the time. Tucker’s recent endeavor to wake up before him is fairly new, and his working schedule is pretty sporadic. Friends tend to drop by without calling ahead randomly and frequently. Wash recently adopted a second cat; her name is Lila. She doesn’t really like Tucker that much, but it’s okay. Ginger, their first one, trails at Tucker’s feet wherever he goes.

After he finishes getting ready, he walks back to their room, towel held at his hips loosely as he begins digging in dresser drawers for clothes. When he drops the towel to put on his clothes, Tucker wolf whistles. Wash can’t resist leaning down real slow, teasing; he’s only human, and his husband loves a show.

When he turns around, Tucker is smiling, half mischief, half amusement, all love. The lines around his eyes are much more apparent when he smiles, and it takes Wash’s breath away. He drops his clothes at the foot of the bed. The blankets are merely draped over Tucker’s lap, and his holopad is being set on his nightstand. Wash, as lethe as he was in the field years ago, crawls into the bed, halfway over his husband while still beside him. One leg finds itself between Tucker’s as he slides down to kiss him comfortably.

Mornings don’t always dissolve into this, kissing and touching until it’s just a whirl of skin against skin, ending with them settled against each other, sated and warm. When it does, though, it’s something pleasant enough to lull them into a doze for at least another hour or so before Tucker wakes up again needing another shower and a decently sized breakfast.

He’ll let Wash rest some more, though. Even after all these years it still feels like he hasn’t caught up on all the good sleep he’s missed out on through everything. Tucker goes downstairs and whips up something quick but satisfying. He doesn’t trust Wash with anything except eggs, and that still depends on how they’re going to be cooked, so he’s usually the one moving about their kitchen.

But, hey, it works for them. Wash usually spends more hours of the day outside the house than Tucker does (his counseling job is appointment-based, unlike Wash’s myriad of ventures that demand a random schedule) so cooking meals is something he has more time and energy for.

Wash eventually comes downstairs, hungry and still too affectionate from their activities to simply lie around alone. After a lingering kiss, he breaks away to make himself useful, pulling out dishes for Tucker to slide eggs and bacon onto.

After they find their plates empty and their bellies full, there is a light air of contentment that comes naturally these days. It takes a while for them to break the peaceful quiet; Tucker is the one to do it. “What time are you leaving?”

Wash looked at the holoclock on the counter, which happily reminded him that it’s fifteen minutes until ten o’clock. “Not until eleven,” he says. He’s taking Caboose to lunch and then to his therapy appointment. Afterwards, he’s going to help their neighbor with a construction job that she didn’t have enough people for. “I’ll be back before dinner.”

“Is that your way of telling me I should make dinner?” Tucker asks teasingly.

“It’s not my fault that you’ve ruined takeout for me.” Wash stands up, taking their dishes to the sink to wash them, which he has insisted on doing for so long that Tucker no longer objects.

He sighs, feigning a put-out expression for only a few seconds, but it’s too difficult to prevent his face from dissolving into a pleased smile. He watches Wash carefully slot the dishes on the drying rack after toweling them off for a few moments later before he starts to feel a little antsy (he still has a difficult time being patient; he’s working on it).

“I’m going to the store today,” he says.

Wash places the last dish on the rack, unrolling his sleeves. “Can you get some more of those eclairs you got last time?” he asks absently. “The chocolate ones?”

Tucker can’t help but laugh a little. “Yes, Wash,” he teases, “I can buy the eclairs I got last time.”

Wash looks at him, mildly affronted at his tone. “What? They were good.”

“I know, man,” Tucker says, raising his hands as if to pacify him. “It’s just… I don’t know. It’s kind of cute that you liked them so much.”

Wash crosses his arms, opens his mouth to deny it, so Tucker continues quickly, “Makes me think of how I would’ve felt if you would’ve asked me to buy you chocolate fucking eclairs with little whipped cream swirls a couple years ago. I would’ve had Doc check me for a concussion.”

Tucker holds his hands out towards where he stands in front of their sink, and Wash’s freckled face softens considerably. He complies to Tucker’s silent request, walking to him and taking his hands into his own. “I think,” Wash says, “that a future where I couldn’t ask you to buy me chocolate eclairs from the grocery store wouldn’t have been worth all the trouble.”

Tucker groans. “That’s so cheesy. I hate you. I miss when you were screaming at me about running drills.”

Wash leans in and kisses his wrinkled nose. “I have been playing personal trainer to Sarge, lately,” he says lightly. “You can always schedule an appointment with me.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Tucker moans. “That isn’t funny.” Wash laughs anyway, his breath puffing against Tucker’s face. “And go brush your teeth. You smell like eggs now.”

Wash moves away, still tittering as he walks back upstairs, and Tucker can’t help the stupidly dopey grin that forms on his face as he watches him go.

**Author's Note:**

> i know i write too much domestic stuff but i crave the intricate rituals  
please excuse the typos that im sure are in this its been sitting in a docs folder for months and i just decided to try and wrap it up bc i was feeling soft


End file.
